


No Exceptions

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: 1920s, Gangsters, M/M, Roarin' Twenties AU!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk Strider has three rules. Don't show mercy, don't leave the Crew, don't fall in love. Then he's told to off a mister Jake English, and everything that he's done to make sure there are no exceptions is crumbling apart like eggshells and china teacups and Dirk isn't sure if he's going to be the death of Jake or if it's going to be the other way around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Call Us Skookum

**Author's Note:**

> u know what i love  
> the roarin twenties  
> u know what i love  
> dirkjake  
> u know what i love  
> dirkjake in the roarin twenties

            There are three things that you, Dirk Strider, will never, ever do.

 

            The first: you will never show mercy.

            Mercy is pathetic.

            Mercy will have them pitying you because you ‘don’t belong with these bastards.’

            You do.

 

            The second: you will never leave the Crew.

            It’s a Universal Constant.

            And that’s really all there is to say on the matter.

 

            The third: you will never fall in love.

            Love is for fools.

            For the ones who feel uncomfortable that attraction is merely human nature, essential only for survival, and call it love just to make themselves feel a little better.

            It’ll weaken your willpower and stop you from doing what’s necessary.

            And that will never happen to you.

 

            There are no exceptions.

()()()

            You are lying on the cement roof of the shop the Crew calls its own, your ankles crossed and your hands under the back of your head. Your white dress shirt’s top few buttons are undone, while all those of your vest are as well, with your suit jacket folded neatly to your left. The sky has few stars, which is disappointing and has you longing for the fresh, open air of Texas that you’d grown up breathing. New York is nothing like that, especially here in Brooklyn. Stars simply dot the sky, not coat it like the powdered sugar you dash on your pancakes on Sunday mornings. It leaves you with a tugging sort of sensation in your chest, behind your sternum. You’re about to get to your feet and make your way back down so it fades, but Deuce is tossing open the door and hurrying over, so you remain in your original relaxed position as if you weren’t about to get up at all.

            Deuce stops beside you, nudging your side with the toe of his shoe. You tip your head to him so he knows you’re listening. “Slick wants to see you,” he informs you, and when you ask why, he shrugs and says, “Y’know business with him stays ‘tween two people.”

            Yeah, you know that. Slick likes to keep things simple, so if the other one with the knowledge proved to be traitorous, a knife to the gut would keep everything under control.

            It’s one of many things you really appreciate about that guy.

            You’re on your feet in a flash, darting past Deuce and snatching up your coat so you can tug it on as you head down to meet Slick. The buttons are just fastened when you enter his office.

            “Yeah, come in,” he grumbles as you enter. You smirk a little, dropping onto the chair in a heavy slouch with an arm thrown over the chair’s.

            You angle your chin toward him. “What is it?” you question, crossing your ankles. He taps the thin cigarette holder between his fingers on the table, a sign that he’s fairly agitated—he never touches anything of hers unless he’s feeling bothered. You flick your eyes to it and raise your eyebrows, which causes him to scowl and drop it on the papers.

            “The damned Felt again,” he grunts. “Ain’t just English or Scratch this time. It’s some kid—another English—called Jake. Pretty high up in the group.”

            The tone you respond with is bored and emotionless. “That’s fascinating, Slick, it really is, but if you don’t have a job for me I’m going to polish up a couple blades.”

            “I got a job for you, Strider. A big one, if I have my say.” He leans forward onto his forearms, over the desk. “You’re gonna off the new English.” Slick waves you away, so you stand, stretch, and are gone the instant his lips form the beginning of some form of 'get the fuck out.' It's part of your style—you’re unhurried in a way that’s borderline infuriating to anyone else, but you know exactly when to… how would Boxcars put it? Skedaddle. 

            (He’s an interesting fellow, that Boxcars.)

            Back in the room where you take residence, you strip off your suit coat and toss it over the back of the desk chair. You collapse onto the small bed in the back corner of the room in which you reside, comforted by the plushness that molds around your weight. A twist of your neck and you’re studying the rest of the room you call your own. You do this often, just lie back and appreciate the fact that hey, you’re not some shithole thief living off what you snatch from the pockets of unwary businessmen, you’ve got a great place with a great four men that you really admire and are actually pretty okay with. This is one of those times, lying back and craning your neck just a bit to examine your living space.

            The walls are a simple off-white, as the drywall had come, since there really hadn’t been any reason to paint it them. The flooring is a dark, reddish wood paneling, slightly warped from spills and old age. Two doors, a wardrobe, and a desk, all wooden, are a shade darker than the floor and all look very expensive and like they belong somewhere that isn’t owned by a fairly violent gang—but really, if you were to explore the rest of the abode, it would be just as sophisticated and high in class as your room, a fact that you were almost surprised to find out when you first did so. Slick, though he pretends otherwise, has quite the eye for interior design (for which Droog is extraordinarily grateful). The lower two drawers of the wardrobe contain boxers, suspenders, and beneath those, false bottoms reveal your best rifles and knives. Two windows look down on the street, where you can watch passersby go about their daily business, walking straight by the inconspicuous little building snug between two other inconspicuous little buildings, who will probably never know that five men sit in the study of that inconspicuous little building and casually discuss their best acts of assassination over a cup of coffee.

            If the place looked any different than it does, you would’ve left before you arrived. But the place is tasteful and you’re able to alter it to your whims (mostly), and yeah, that’s a basic representation something else you definitely appreciate about Slick. There are rules, and he’ll make sure you follow them, but you’re free to go about whatever crimes you’d like to commit, and that’s a truly commendable trait, you think. Anyone can call the guy shitty, or murderous, or psychopathic, but regard him as démodé and you might just put to use the self-teaching you’d done on carving out a tongue.

            There’s a knock on your door and you wonder who the fuck would want to talk to you, but that’s a pretty dumb thought, because it’s obvious in the tapping (light, firm, in a sort of one one-two one pattern) that it’s Droog. So you grunt in a form of ‘sure’ and he slides in with that liquid-like movement that he’d carried himself with before, though mastered exceptionally well after you’d joined the Crew (as often one may learn best via analysis).

            Of all four, you would probably consider Droog your most preferred member of the Crew; you don’t pick favorites and you don’t have friends, but he’s about as close as you get, with Slick a close second—then there are the other two, but you try to keep them off your mind. Droog drops into your desk chair, his usual poise melting away, frost under sunlight. He slouches against the back, elbows on the arms, forearms hanging limply off to the side. He drops his hat on the desk, on top of some papers or some shit you don’t really care about, and runs a hand down his face.

            “Don’t think I can do it, Strider,” he mutters, voice distracted and faintly perturbed.

            You cross your ankles and prop your head up with your hands, stretched behind your head, like you were on the roof. “’Sup?” you ask, inclining your chin in his direction so he knows you’re listening.

            He runs a hand through his dark hair, then grumbles something and flattens it down again. “Goddamn Boxcars!” he snaps, “thinks it’s fine and dandy to go ahead and use the nearest fabric to clean up some fucker’s blood off his hands!”

            “Isn’t it?” you drawl, knowing full well he’ll continue on anyway but making it easier for him to explain via answer. You’re a good guy in that sense, and the look he shoots you is appreciative.

            “You know goddamn well that it isn’t!” _Goddamn,_ you think, and half-smile to yourself. _He’s sure fond of that one._ “Especially if it’s one of my _finest_ and most _perfectly tailored suits!!_ ”

            On anyone else, it would be an overreaction. However, on Droog, it’s thoroughly normal, so you settle yourself more comfortably and listen to him rant for a while. The guy trusts you, perhaps even a little more than he does Slick; he would probably let you borrow a suit. For Droog, that’s really saying something. Though you’ve got no reason to borrow one of his suits, because he’s a little narrower and has a bit more gangliness to him, you can still listen to the guy so he doesn’t have to lower himself to keeping a diary.

            Like Slick.

            You hold back a snicker at the thought.

            “The brute ain’t worth your time, Droog,” you say, interrupting him as he begins to go on about Boxcars’ sloppy eating habits. “I’m not saying relax, because you’ve got every right to be bothered, but really. He doesn’t know he’s doin’ it. It’s like Deuce. He’s all scatterbrained, but it just makes him kinda endearing.”

            Droog gives a brittle sort of laugh. “The guy can make a killer bomb. That really tips the ‘endearing’ scale.”

            You chuckle. Droog and Slick and their word plays. “Slick’s got that more-bark-less-bite tendency to him,” you muse, “until you slip him a knife, I mean.”

            “He’s always got a knife.”

            You point at him. “That he does,” you say, which really doesn’t make any sense, but you’re drowsy and were expecting a nap and some time to mull over that task you’d been given. Of anyone to interrupt, Droog would be your top choice, but you’re not going to change your demeanor just because he wants to gossip.

            He laughs again, though, a little less dry than before. “Another thing with Boxcars: his brilliant safe-opening technique!”

            “Yeah, ripping it out of the wall and smashing it on the floor until the door breaks, very clever,” you snort. “But, Droog, don’t go shorting yourself out now. The Midnight Crew’d be nothing without your exquisite finesse.”

            Droog snaps his fingers and points at you. “Kid, don’t push it,” he says, but there’s a smile in his voice and you know he took the compliment well. “And don’t think I’m fond of you, but I can’t deny your brainpower. Slick’s great, but you’re—”

            “Cool,” you offer, knowing he was about to fumble for a word. It’s something he did often without realizing he did it, so you try to make sure you can catch him before he does. It’s something you know he appreciates.

            One of those things.

            He nods curtly. “Cool,” he agrees, then shakes his head and grabs his hat, dropping it back onto his head. “So, Slick give you somethin’ to occupy your time with for a while?”

            “Nothing exciting,” you say modestly, though you would consider it very exciting and want nothing more than to talk about it—and talk a lot. However, you spend a lot of time wanting to talk and not talking, so you leave it at that.

            Droog knows you, though, so he prompts, “Go ahead, kid, you listened to me,” and you toss up your arms to gesticulate as you begin to speak.

            “He wants to me off some new leader guy in the Felt,” you explain. “But really, what does it matter? I mean, why get rid of this guy? Why not just go for Scratch, or—well, obviously not English, or I guess, the first English—but what’s the point? Three leaders. One just likes to watch people get fucked over, the other just kind of goes around and fucks people over for no apparent reason apart from borderline insane pleasure. Are we worried about this new guy—John? Jack? Whatever—getting their shit together? And if they do, we’re far more adept at basically _everything,_ so why not just let them go about their business and throw around some empty threats for a while? This violence is kind of unnecessary.”

            “Pause,” Droog stops you. “What I think he’s worried about, Shades, is the fact that we don’t know this new guy’s style. We don’t know if he’s gonna go violent and attack, we don’t know if he’s gonna call us skookum and leave us be. You know where I’m goin’ with this?”

            You do. You see exactly where he’s going, and you apologize for your momentary stupidity, to which he replies that you’re always stupid, and you thank him for that as he gets up and leaves you to yourself.

            It’s silent when he leaves. In any other instance, it’d probably be tranquil, to the point of relaxing, but not tonight. You’ve been told to kill before, you’d done it just fine, and you sure as hell aren’t going to back out of this. Except this is different. You don’t know why. Something just tells you that it _is._ It’s that gut feeling, the one Slick bases many of his actions on (most of which are successful, listen to yours!), the one that has your stomach churning and you frowning. This is really not how you’d planned on spending your night, actually. Maybe you should just get up, shove some long knives on your person, get out a suit for the morning. This talking is something you weren’t expecting and therefore weren’t braced or prepared for, so you’re now exhausted and want to stop thinking. The silence pulses at your ears and your thoughts scream to cover it; you get up, toss open the windows and fall back into bed. Lazily, with movements that don’t use many muscles, you strip down to your boxers and worm your way under the blankets, praying to nonexistent entities that you’ll wake up prepared. 


	2. Informant's Business.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now, something confidential, whisper not above a breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am going to use lyrics from the midnight crew song as chapter summaries its been decided dont change my mind

            You are Dirk Strider and you are holding seven knives.

            Well, you were. Now you’re depositing them in various sheaths concealed on your person: at your ankle, your forearm, your hip, et cetera. All of it hidden under your orange vest and tie, bright against the stark black of your jacket and pants, has been given a nod of approval by Droog. That’s something you’re thankful for, since you don’t normally go anywhere without a flicker of a ‘lookin’ good, kid’ nod from the man. Deuce and Slick are nowhere to be seen, but Boxcars gives you a pat on the shoulder as he enters and you leave the room which almost sends you sprawling. You turn your head as if to glance at one of the many paintings on the wall, so you can see the indignant look Droog casts his way. Smirking, you grab the long, dark coat that hangs by the door, recalling that this is the suit you wore when it was originally tailored for you. You close the front door behind you and hop down the steps, tugging up the collar of your jacket and holding it up against your neck because _holy fuck,_ New York is _cold._ Far colder than Texas. At the thought of your home state (and the warmth—oh god, do you miss Texan warmth), you shrug your shoulders in an attempt to adjust the jacket and hurry away. Though you don’t know where you’ll find English, you have a good idea as to where you can find out.

()()()

            The bar isn’t large, but it’s not small either. It’s that in-between size; things are just barely far enough apart to scoot between but are arranged in a way that has everyone feeling comfortable and unworried. It’s a nice joint. The fights are little and meaningless and infrequent, and the customers at _Ro-Lals’_ are frequents themselves as if to make up for it. A newcomer is rare, though upon entry, would find that those who dwell within are all affable—whether with drunkenness or just personality. You even recall a time where you actually bought Scratch a drink. Sure, he just stood there, his pale, collected self, holding the short glass of scotch in his hand and offering low chuckles to your drunken guffaws, but he accepted it all the same.

            So entering now, you can’t keep the smile from your lips, one that the blonde girl behind the bar sees as she waves you over. “Di-Stri!” she calls, gesturing for you to perch on a barstool while sliding a mug of beer down the counter to a man who reaches out and snatches it by the handle without a glance.

            You rest one forearm on the counter, the other hand on your knee. “Evenin’, gal,” you drawl to her, and she feigns a swoon. Her bright pink dress is short, a diagonal cut across her thighs, with stripes of navy and black fringe down it. One black strap serves to keep it up. The fringe falls to the side as she bows her spine backward.

            “My, mister Strider,” she breathes dramatically, then bends over to you—and misses, her elbows slipping from the edge of the bar as she topples with a small shriek. Another blonde, one in a purple dress—not much longer but with a straight hem and transparent half-length sleeves, the fringe just rows in purple and dark orange—saunters over to you. She’s one of the co-creators of the bar, and though she spends most of her time in her own used bookstore down the street, she comes and bartends on its closed days. She leans over the other girl completely, offering an apologetic smile.

            “To what do we owe this pleasure, Strider?” she asks, planting her hands wide on the bar, tapping her fingers. You find yourself drumming the same pattern with your own.

            You bring up your other arm to rest it on the counter, inclining you head toward her. She does the same, catching the hint.

            “I’m looking for a guy called English,” you murmur to her.

            “Not Jack?” she clarifies.

            You nod. “Not Jack. Goes by Jake.”

            This time, she’s the one to nod. “Jake English,” she mused. “I know of him.”

            You know that isn’t saying much. Rose Lalonde knows of everything.

            “You know we innocuous bartends can’t disclose anything here,” Rose says in a soft, scolding tone. “ _Ro-Lals’_ is neutral ground.”

            Her sister pops up between her arms and Rose steps back. “Though I might know someone who can. Gimme a sec!” Roxy’s voice is eager as she ducks away. Rose finishes the three drinks she’d been preparing, sliding two across the bar and shouting a name for the third to come get his. She moves back to you, with a sort of sliding grace that she shares with her sister—if she’s the slide, Roxy’s the slip—and smiles.

            “So, can I get you anything, sir? You are a customer, after all,” she says, holding up a finger to a man that shouted her name.

            You shake your head. You need to keep a clear mind. Even if you aren’t a light drink, one of your favorites will certainly be enough to get you fuzzy.

            A lady is suddenly almost-shoved into the seat next to you, and she grins sheepishly. “Hi,” she greets you, and behind her you see Roxy hopping over the bar. “I’m Jane Crocker. I hear you need some information?”

            You’ve seen this girl before. Playing the piano, at a corner table, chatting with Roxy. Always in light blue, sometimes tan, like today. Her overcoat is that light brown, and the ruffled skirt that peeks out beneath it is cerulean. The ribbon of her hat matches it. Black hair curls at her temples and over her forehead, and the corner of her lips tilts up as your eyes skim back up to meet hers. They’re the same color as her skirt and ribbon, and it almost has you smiling back.

            You nod instead.

            “Roxy brought you the right girl.” There’s no trace of Boston in her voice. It’s crisp, syllables clear-cut. “So what do you want to know about Jake English?”

            “Not much,” you tell her. “Just where you think I might be able to find him.”

            “It’s not my business to know why, is it?”

            Your fingers still. “No,” you say. “No, it isn’t. Sorry ‘bout that, miss.”

            Roxy gives another swoon from five stools to the right. “That damn accent,” you hear her gush to the woman she passes a clear drink to, “is gonna be the death of me!”

            Jane’s thoughtful hum draws your attention back to her. Her mouth is pushed to one side, lips crinkled, and her eyes are staring down her button nose as if it’s where she stores all her knowledge (though it’s far too small for that—all her features are little and look fairly delicate, and it makes her endearing in the china-doll sort of way). “Well,” she says at last, “I don’t know for sure. I’d tell you the old town house—” You know she’s talking about the large two-story that the Felt uses as one of their hideouts. “—but see, thing is, I’m sure they’ve not been there for a long time.” She hums again. “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t give you anything but that. However.” Jane gestures for you to come closer. You do, craning your neck down so your face is near hers. Something behind her eyes glitters almost mischievously. “I _can_ direct you to my cousin, John Egbert. He’s likely to be hovering around with a mister Dave Strider, who runs a music shop a few streets over. Should be right across from Astounding Anthologies—the bookstore run by Miss Rose Lalonde. She can give you directions, if you’d like, though you seem like a fellow who would know his titles.” Her tone is appreciatory as she says such, and you smirk.

            “Thanks, dame. I’ll be seeing you,” you tell her, and drop off the stool, heading to the door. Roxy calls you goodbye, and in the reflection of the window you see Rose’s wave, with that smile that makes her look like she knows something you don’t.

            The door slams behind you in the wind, the jazzy piano music now muffled by the glass. The joint’s pink-tinted light filters out onto the street, though the heat is gone and the warmth of the laughter is gone from the air, seeping out and leaving you chilly once more. It’s getting a bit late, but not late enough that your brother would close shop, you’re certain. The guy’s basically nocturnal, like you. You still visit him every now and again, during a lull in business. He’s always happy to see you. Acts like you darken his doorstep, but there’s an ardor in the upward slant of his lips every time you arrive.

            This time isn’t any different. He tosses open the back door with shades over his eyes and a black cap over his blonde hair, but he’s actually _zipping his pants_ the moment before the door is fully open. Though a backward movement of his shoulders suggests that he’s surprised to see you, he simpers. “’Sup, big bro?” he mumbles, opening the door further to let you in.

            You shake your head. “Not tonight, man,” you say, noting the blush in his cheeks that probably isn’t from the cold. “John Egbert.”

            Dave almost starts, then swallows. He’s not as good at hiding expression as you are. “Not here,” he states, so you roll your eyes and flash-step past him into the back room of the shop. It’s small, very small, with only a long couch and a bookcase full of notebooks and music stuff. On said couch lies a boy, probably about the same 17 years as your brother, with unbuttoned slacks and no shirt. His black hair is a mess, as if he rolled out of bed and began his day without even bothering to comb it. He’s kind of scrawny but seems tall, and when you enter, he scrambles to his feet.

            “Oh! Uh, Dirk! I mean, um, Mister Strider, I’m sorry, I should probably—”

            You pick up his shirt—it’s damp, and you internally cringe, because _ew_ —and toss it to him. “Yeah,” you say. “If you want. I’ve only got one question.”

            “Bro!” Dave storms into the room, his face a bold red. “What the fuck!”

            You’re calm as you mutter, “I just have to ask a question. Nothing to do with your little escapades here.”

            John straightens. His shirt is misbuttoned, but you don’t bother saying anything about it. “Well?” he asks. “What is it?”

            “Your cousin Jane directed me to you,” you inform him. “She didn’t have a good answer for me. Where do you think I can find Jake English?”

            The boy hesitates, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “If you’re gonna kill the guy, I’m not going to tell you.”

            This is getting ridiculous. It isn’t the informant’s business as to what you’ll do with the particulars. As much as you want to reach out and let the blade in your sleeve slip, you close your eyes and take a deep breath. In, out. Lower the shoulders. Swallow down the irritation that lodges itself in your throat. Speak now. “Just tell me where he might be.” You are the epitome of calm, cool, collected.

            He raises his chin in a shaky challenge. “I don’t think so.”

            You let the knife descend until you can snatch it by the hilt. It’s a quick movement, and it startles him; he takes a step back as the blade’s glint hits his eyes. The tip is sharp as you pick at your nails. “A couple months ago,” you mention, “I taught myself the best, most successful and most painful ways to remove a person’s tongue.” In your peripheral vision, Dave jumps. Often he refuses to see you as a member of the Crew and just remembers you as the brother he travelled to New York with from Houston, not the murderous gangster now. Whenever he sees that side of you, he’s surprised when he shouldn’t be. “Now, kid, I _really_ don’t wanna dirty this knife I have here. I just cleaned it. It’s spotless. Innocent blood would still stain even after it’s spotless again.” You’re in front of him in an instant, the point poking his lower lip. His face drains white. “But I can’t say I care,” you growl.

            “ _Dirk!_ ” Dave shouts. John holds up a hand.

            “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, I’ll tell you, okay!”

            You increase the pressure for just a moment, drawing one tiny bead of blood, before slipping it back up your forearm and leaning back expectantly.

            John licks up the drop, smearing it. You think of your brother doing the same to it and your lip curls. “I haven’t the slightest,” he admits, “as to where Jake is. But he’s close with his cousin, Jade. She’ll know. I promise. She’ll know.”

            The last thing you want is a goose chase. Two stops is one too many. _Ro-Lals’_ is usually your one and only. Three is definitely not happening. “Kid,” you snarl. “I need this information now. Tonight. Any lady would be asleep by now. I ain’t waiting ‘till morning, and I really think your ‘slightest’ isn’t as slight as you want me to think.”

            You have no idea how slight his ‘slight’ is. But the ruse works, and Egbert sighs heavily. “Fine. The Felt have that huge mansion uptown. Jade marble. One of the biggest in the neighborhood. You’ll probably find him there.”

            Exasperated, you let out a sharp breath. “Now, was that really all too hard?” you say, then turn to your brother on your way out as he’s hurrying to John. “I already ain’t pleased with this flame of yours, bro,” you tell him, voice hushed and harsh. His mouth falls open like he’s about to say something back, but you’re out the door before he can.

            That was a lot of unnecessary socializing. Finally, though, you’re through it. All you need to do is get in. While you’re usually against the kill-as-they-sleep technique, you’re already exhausted with this mission, so you don’t see a problem just this once. You’ll get creative with your next few to make up for it, you decide, shoving your hands in your pockets and ducking your head as you begin the long walk uptown. It’ll be at least midnight before you get there, so you tuck yourself into your thoughts and count your steps and try to forget the cold dampness of Brooklyn air. 


	3. Fierce Competition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just detest a man afraid to go home in the dark.

**== > Be the other guy. **

            What other guy?

            You’re Jake English, and all the other guys are sleeping. Or something. You’re not really sure. You usually just kind of leave them to their own devices because that’s the kind of leader you are! No bedtimes to be spoken of, not at all! You’d told Doc that since you were a boy, arms crossed and pouting about the fact that eight o’clock is way too early to go to bed, you weren’t even tired! Now—well, you can’t exactly tell Doc to go to bed like that, because that’s rude and he’d just laugh at you anyway, but you can definitely make sure that they all know they can stay up as late as they want to. Except, most of the time, they don’t end up awake much past ten or so. Crowbar’s usually the last asleep, at around midnight, and he’s peering over his shoulder and slamming the front doors as soon as he returns from his daily doings.

            You know why, though. Of course you do. It’d be extremely foolish not to.

            The Midnight Crew wakes up between eight and nine thirty, except that one guy, who stays up late and sleeps in late, too. You’ve never seen that guy. Clover just told you about him, and that he’s ginger or something. You don’t remember. Just that Clover seemed pretty shaken, and though he always does, it didn’t seem to just be his usual uneasiness at work. When you asked him about it, he said something like ‘he _told_ me!’ and scampered off.

            Weird guy.

            But the Midnight Crew _is_ a gang to watch out for. They’re pretty ruthless. There’s that Deuce guy with his bombs (you only remember his name because it makes you think of ‘dunce,’ like on the hats, and then you remember that time when he wore that weird bomb thing underneath his hat as if to hide it and how stupid it looked), and Spades Slick with his knives, and Boxcars with his fucking _fists,_ for God’s sake, and Diamonds (you only remember the first name he goes by, because of the ones you’ve seen at his cuffs) who doesn’t seem to know much of what’s going on but that doesn’t seem to matter because he just kind of kills _everything._

Then there’s the last guy, the one that you heard Slick tell Doc about a few years back, in the town house, before you’d been officially declared to be the up-and-coming leader of the Felt.

            _“We got ourselves a weapon, Scratch,”_ the gangster had sneered, twirling his knife. You had tucked yourself farther behind the corner. _“He’s sadistic, lemme tell you. That brat you’re hidin’ someplace, he’ll have some fierce competition. If I don’t have mine off him by then.”_ The upward curl of Slick’s lips had Doc’s own pinched tight in fury, and you heard Doc’s gunshots as you hurried away, back to your room, wishing you’d listened to bedtime orders.

            Now you’re a leader. You’ve just turned twenty-one and your father has given you the nod and the ‘tell Scratch.’ You’ve been passed a celebratory scotch, your first drink apart from sips of champagne and wine. Being leader isn’t easy, not really, because now you’ve got the rest of them looking at you when you pass as if you’ve about to give them instructions or something, even though the Crew has been quiet lately and everything is pretty normal, apart from the the-Crew’s-been-quiet-lately part.

            But it’s late and you really don’t want to worry about that. A glance at a group of clocks tells you that it’s 12:03, which means more than enough time has passed for the Crew to start something so they probably won’t, and you’re absolutely exhausted. You want to sleep for ages. Maybe not very many ages because that’d by kind of stupid, but definitely a few ages. At least.

            Jesus, you’re tired. You’re even _mentally_ babbling. You sure hope no one tries to talk to you as you trudge back to your room, because you might accidentally talk their ears off, and what kind of leader would you be then?

            You make it back to your room from the foyer without contact. Aha, triumph! You unbutton your lime dress shirt and drop to the bed, kicking off your shoes and hearing the _clump-clump_ as they fall to the floor. Yanking off your glasses, you drop them onto the bedside table, though it’s quite the reach and you need to scoot to make sure they land on the wood. Your room is big and fancy, with intricate designs carved somewhere into every piece of light wooden furniture and lacey patterns sewed onto fabrics (with ropey sort of thread that make them kind of uncomfortable to touch). There’s a lot you’d do to personalize this room, but Doc says that you should be grateful for this stuff that you’ve got because no one but the Felt could afford much better. And you are grateful, really, but not in the way you’d like to be grateful. That makes sense, right? It does in your head.

            You lie awake for a while, even though you’re really worn out and just want to sleep a lot, something’s keeping you up. You try to push it away and clear your mind, but you have this feeling that something important is going to happen soon. Not soon like a-few-months-from-now kind of soon, but _really really soon_ kind of soon. Like, tonight.

            Then there’s something cold and sharp against the side of your throat and you’re tensing and you know where that feeling came from. Whoever’s holding the blade pauses, the position of it moving a little but not leaving your neck, and you swallow. It flexes the muscles and you feel skin break.

            _“We got ourselves a weapon.”_

“I’m not—” Your voice cracks as you try to speak. You don’t turn your head to see the Crew member that has a knife to your jugular, because if you did you’d do the cutting for him. You just lock your gaze on the wall. “I’m not going to stop you,” you say. “But I _am_ going to say that this is a sordid kill, even for you.”

            Suddenly the presence is gone and so is the knife, and you can breathe again. You suck in air greedily as if you’d been suffocating, bringing up your fingers to brush the scratch. A drop of blood hovers at the tip, and when you touch it, it glides down your skin, moving to your collarbone as you sit up.

            You were almost killed.

            Right then.

            And you could have been.

            It could have been so easy to end your life. He had control with just a flick of his wrist.

            So why didn’t he do it?

**== > _Now_ be the other guy.**

You’re now the other guy, the one that has a drop of blood on his otherwise pristine knife and is trying not to slam his head into a wall.

            _GOD FUCKING DAMNIT YOU’RE SO FUCKING STUPID WHAT THE FUCK STRIDER._

You’re not a pussy. Really, you’re not. So what happened in there? You’re in the mansion. You found Jake English. You had a knife to his throat. Then the moonlight filtered directly through the sliver in his curtains, and you saw his face, and you saw him tense and knew he was awake, but _Jesus Lord Almighty,_ nobody told you English was _attractive._ He had that strong jaw and unruly dark hair and bright green eyes that glimmered in that stupid fucking moonlight that ended up ruining you. You could tell that even beneath the sheets he was well-muscled and tall and then he spokewith that voicethat made you want to _melt_ and you’re Dirk Strider, this does not happen to you.

            You’re Dirk Strider and you don’t show mercy.

            You’re Dirk Strider and you’re a member of the Midnight Crew.

            You’re Dirk Strider and love is for fools.

            With that cycling through your head, you flash-step back into the room to find him sitting up and poking at the cut on his neck. He apparently lit the beside candle, because it’s flickering and you see that his skin is tanned and there’s a maroon line trailing down beneath his collar, and then the knife is back up in the sheath at your wrist and you’re asking him what happened because you’re really actually goddamn stupid.

            English looks up, startled. “Oh!” _Come on Strider, keep your footing, he said one syllable, your knees aren’t allowed to feel weak._ “I’m sorry, I can’t say I know who you are!” He has the nerve to sound abashed. “But it wouldn’t make sense for you to be the one who just held a dagger to my throat, huh?”

            You’re silent.

            He laughs nervously. “Of course not! That’d be daft, wouldn’t it? I’m just not sure how you got in…” English’s brow furrows. How can one person be so expressive? Is that actually a thing? What the fuck, stomach, stop fluttering like that! “But you don’t appear to have any weapons with you, so I suppose it should be fine. Are you in need of a place to nod off for a while?”

            You want to say no. You want to grab the long blade at your waist and shove it into his chest. You want to go back to Slick and tell him the job’s done.

            You nod, because you’re an idiot.

            He grins. “Okay then! Well, I could show you to another bedroom—”

            You realize your mistake now. You can definitely _not_ stay here. Scratch has seen your face. Most of the Felt have seen your face. It’s just English and a few others that haven’t. They would see you and definitely attack. So you interrupt him: “No!” without thinking beforehand.

            Brow furrowed again, he asks, “What? Why not? We have quite a few spare…”

            Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. He looks so innocent, with those big eyes and parted lips, and it makes you want to scream and use one of your seven knifes to go full suicide because that’d probably be better than this.

            “It’s fine,” you tell him, making sure your voice is smooth and relaxed. “I shouldn’t be here anyway. It was moronic enough of you to not break out your pistols and shoot me from the moment you saw me. I’ll make this intelligent decision for you and let myself out. Sorry to bother you.”

            To enter the room, you’d scaled the outside wall and picked the lock on the balcony doors. Your dramatic flair (or perhaps just the urge to show off) shines through and you throw them wide and leap down, grabbing hold of one of the many windowsills. You brace your feet on the wall beneath it and are about to jump down the rest of the way, but you hear a call and look up.

            It’s English, his eyes even wider than ever. He leans almost completely over the railing and actually looks relieved to see you balancing there.

            “How did you do that?” he questions. “Is that how you got up here? Why not just use the door? Why did you come so late at night? Golly! That’s mighty impressive, sir, I must say!”

            You feel your chest swell at his compliment and make a mental note to stab yourself for it later. Instead of saying anything, you hop the rest of the way down, just to hear the balcony door slam. Good. Now you can walk back to the little inconspicuous building and tell yourself over and over about how you just need to follow your rules, damnit! If you hadn’t forgotten number three, this wouldn’t have happened! Look at what a stupid fucking infatuation did! Ruined an entire job—

            “Hey! Gent! Would you stop walking for a minute and turn around?”

            _No. Fucking. Way._

Your head turns on its own accord and there’s English, hopping along as he tugs on his other shoe, hatless and coatless as if it isn’t forty million degrees below zero. “Get back inside!” you snap at him, but all he does is pick up his speed with that weird-ass grin across his face and square glasses crooked, and your feet stop moving even though you want to urge them forward, and you wait until he’s a few feet behind you before you keep walking so he can fall into step beside you.

            _You could slice a blade across his throat and watch his half-buttoned shirt blotch red._

_You could impale one into his chest just with a flick of the wrist and an outward stretch of your arm._

_You could flash-step and topple him, land with your knee to his sternum and your fingers around his windpipe as his face flushes crimson._

_You could swipe your foot to the side, watch him fall to his knees, then paralyze him with a heel-kick to his lower skull and drag him where he’ll starve to death, if he doesn’t freeze first._

_You could whirl to face him and get to your toes and press your lips to his, hands skimming his broad chest as you share the same frigid air._

Your hands clench to fists in your pockets and you keep walking, reluctantly listening to his seemingly endless babbling about how ‘bang-up’ that ‘show’ was as you come to terms with the fact that you are royally, to the hilt, fucked. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look dudes i was on a motherfucking boat dont blame me for shit

**Author's Note:**

> ummm, golly!!! i totes didnt realise that theres a game thing thats like this?? well uhmmm im sorry a lot but uhh heres the link i didnt realise i was sorta-kinda fanfic-ing something that was also something else??? idk but heres a link and um i just played it its supercute its also not how this is going to turn out ok: [play by heart the game](http://www.newgrounds.com/portal/view/600361)


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